


Sense Memories

by mtothedestiel



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alpha Eliot Waugh, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Everybody Lives, Happy Ending, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mating, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mosaic, Omega Quentin Coldwater, POV Eliot Waugh, Pheromones, Post Mosaic, Protective Eliot Waugh, Recovered Memories, Scent Marking, Shameless Smut, Tenderness, Timeline Shenanigans, Top Eliot Waugh, True Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: ABO 'Verse. Eliot and Quentin come back from the Mosaic. They recover their memories of a beautiful life, and take the opportunity to live it all again.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 25
Kudos: 385





	Sense Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all. This is what it is, so check out the tags and if it's not for you, no hard feelings! I just think Quentin and Eliot deserve every possible happy ending. I don't see this as containing consent issues, but I know for some folks dubious consent is part of the ABO ballgame so if it's something sensitive for you then proceed with caution. I do have some loose ideas for more episodes in an alternate season 3/4 that plays by these rules, so let me know if you enjoy this little foray into Alpha Eliot and Omega Q!

“It’s a marriage, not a mating, Bambi. We’ll get you out of it.”

Eliot isn’t sure why, but he feels the difference deep in his bones. The decorated wedding arch behind them is nothing compared to the delicate crescent scar of a mark shared between mates. One is a contract, one is a tying of souls. 

_ A marriage, not a mating.  _

He glances at the silver wedding ring on his hand and feels a flicker of wrongness. When he looks up Quentin is looking at him, or rather at his hand. His brow is furrowed as the slim silver band glints in the light. He catches Eliot’s eye and looks away, his cheeks going pink like he’s embarrassed. But why? 

“Whatever,” Margo says, pulling Eliot from his thought. Her scent is sharp with stress. “I’m going to get some rest before this twerp wakes up with some more fucked up ideas about me reproducing like... _ ever _ .”

Eliot lets her go with a lingering kiss to her brow. Her golden wedding gown rustles as she disappears into the hall, leaving him alone with Quentin in the throne room. Q has drifted over to the wedding gifts piled in the corner. It’s at least a small mountain of gold and jewels and all manner of intricately carved wooden furniture—including a deeply unnerving baby cradle that Margo will certainly never be using—but Quentin stands in front of a plain wooden bucket, full of peaches. He touches the white card set on top. 

“I think,” he says, tracing the letters of Margo’s name written out in ink. “That this is my handwriting.”

Eliot steps closer, his nose twitching at the sweet scent of ripe peaches seeping into his awareness and twisting through Quentin’s scent. The combination, it brushes up against something desperately familiar but just out of reach. Quentin sits on the steps below their thrones with the card in hand. Something tickling the back of his mind, Eliot takes a peach.

It’s velvet soft under his palm. Eliot pauses. Velvet soft, but firm. Heavy, when he plucks it from the basket. It feels right in his hand, like a sign. 

Behind him, paper rustles, and he hears Quentin gasp. His scent shifts, changing the pressure in the room, and Eliot has always thought Q smelled good—smelled  _ amazing perfect like mine— _ but he’s had plenty of practice ignoring it, turning his thoughts away from the sweet musky Omega scent that follows Quentin around like a particularly delicate cologne. 

This is nothing like that. Eliot breathes in, and his mind swims. It’s like he can taste every shiver of emotion bubbling up through Quentin’s pheromones. Shock, pain, fear, love, joy,  _ desire— _ but this, what is this? This kind of sensitivity to scent takes time. It builds over  _ years _ .

Between mates. 

Eliot is still holding the peach. He brushes it under his nose, hoping the perfume might clear his mind, give him a moment to  _ think _ but instead it’s only another onslaught of sense memory except he’s  _ never— _

Behind him, Quentin says his name. It’s a soft, ragged sound. Shocked and uncertain. 

“... _ Eliot.” _

Quentin should never sound like that. Eliot falls more than sits on the steps beside him, the peach still in his hand. Quentin should never sound like that, he’s supposed to be happy, and safe. That’s….that’s Eliot’s job.

Why does he…Eliot looks at the peach. He fits the full, heavy fruit to his lips and he can’t resist the sudden, all encompassing urge to  _ bite down.  _ His jaw aches with it even as his teeth part flesh and the sweet, cloying juice bursts over his tongue because—

—because he  _ remembers _ —

—the tang of hot, coppery blood instead when he sank his teeth into Quentin’s throat, piercing his mating gland and making him  _ his— _

—Quentin, on his belly, then on his back, his warm perfect thighs tight around Eliot’s waist, his face twisted in ecstasy as he squeezes squeezes  _ squeezes  _ on Eliot’s knot and cries out--

—a soft, sweet, second first kiss and Quentin’s shy smile afterwards, tipping his chin up just so to offer his neck for Eliot to scent because  _ please El, I want to smell like yours, I’ve been wanting so long— _

The peach falls to the ground with an overripe squelch, already forgotten. 

Quentin was his. Quentin,  _ Quentin— _

How had he forgotten, even for an hour? The beauty of all life. His bond. His love. His—

Quentin whimpers, hands empty. His eyes when he meets Eliot’s are wet and wide.

“ _ Mate _ ,” he pleads, baring his throat, and Eliot shudders past the unconscionable swoop of wrongness in his gut when he sees his unmarked scent gland. He can’t control his growl as he drags Quentin’s body against his, tucking his head under his chin and curling his palm over the vulnerable unbitten skin. 

“Shh, shh, Q, I’m here.” Eliot scents him, rubbing his jaw into his hair and his wrists against Quentin’s throat. 

“Put it back,  _ put it back—” _ Quentin’s voice is cracking, shocky, and Eliot clings to him tighter when he realizes that Quentin’s body is taking all the timeline bullshit and processing it as a broken bond. 

Unacceptable. 

“ _ Quentin.”  _

Eliot feels sick as he drops his voice to that peculiar Alpha register, but it does the trick of stopping Quentin’s panicked almost hyperventilating and allows him to take a single, steady breath, watching Eliot with blown pupils.

“You’re  _ mine _ ,” Eliot growls, squeezing tight at the back of Quentin’s neck. “I gave you my bite and I claimed you and I put our pup in you.” 

And—oh god— _ Teddy _ —

—their pup, their  _ son _ , barely three years old and snuggling into Eliot’s arms for comfort after a nightmare-

—the sweet  _ sweet _ scent of his mate, six months along. Eliot could have died a happy man, with Quentin standing just so in the golden evening light, one hand resting on his not so little bump—

—Quentin, clumsy, trying to tug the charm from the cord that hangs around his neck, flushed and heat slick.  _ I don’t want it,  _ he says to the magical prophylactic,  _ I want your pups, El _ ,  _ please,  _ please _ give me  _ and Eliot soothing him, petting him,  _ next time baby, next time, all you have to do is ask and I swear I’ll fill you up _ —

Eliot freezes, the enormity of their loss hitting him like a punch to the stomach.

They had a son. Quentin  _ carried his son.  _

_ “ _ Please, please please—“ Quentin is gasping in his arms, eyes wet as he pleads and Eliot feels a primal pulse deep in his bones—

_ Protect protect protect provide provide  _ provide—

“My sweetheart,” he murmurs, dropping his voice to cling to his mate, “My love. It’s alright. I’m going to take care of you now.” 

“El,” Quentin finally manages, “El, please, it  _ hurts. _ ”

What’s hurting his mate? Who? Eliot will kill them. Anything,  _ anything _ , to keep Quentin safe and happy. 

“I’ll fix it,” Eliot promises, dragging them both to their feet and into the hall. “I’ll make it right. You’ll never hurt again, baby. I promise.” 

Quentin stumbles beside him, whimpering as he clings to Eliot as tightly as he can, pressing his face to Eliot’s throat, desperate for his scent.

Eliot’s private chambers are close. His  _ dressing  _ rooms, not his bedroom, where Fen expects—no, no, don’t think about that. He opens the door and brings a Quentin in where it’s safe, where it only smells like Eliot. His things, and his space. A bed.

Quentin relaxes as soon as he sees the lush expanse waiting for them. It’s as if some instinctual, anxious part of him was still expecting Eliot to reject him. To take him to the castle gates and toss him out in the cold.

Eliot would die first.

He leads Quentin to the bed, and helps him sit up in the middle of the velvet bedclothes. Eliot rucks the blankets up around him and then darts back and forth to his massive wardrobe, pulling out his softest and most well-loved shirts and scarves and frothing silk cravats. Things that sat against his throat and kept his scent even after a palace washing. He puts these soft things in Quentin’s hands until his gaze sharpens and his instincts kick in and he’s—oh it’s beautiful—he’s  _ nesting _ in Eliot’s bed. Quentin pulls the sheets loose and sets the pillows just so and between it all he weaves in Eliot’s clothes until he’s smoothing out a gorgeous soft-walled place for them to curl together and his scent is warming from  _ scaredscaredscared  _ to  _ safesafesafe _ .

God, his scent. How could Eliot have forgotten it, even for a minute? Quentin’s scent when he’s safe, when he’s wanting...fuck, it’s  _ verdant _ . Lush. Eliot wants to suffocate in it.

When he’s satisfied, Quentin undresses, and Eliot’s brain short circuits. He does it without even hesitating, like  _ this is my nest and I’m ready for my alpha _ tugging off that black hoodie and the t-shirt underneath, shimmying out of his jeans like they’re a burden to him. All that beautiful skin on display, his firm chest and his soft belly. His boxers are last and Eliot can tell they’re nearly soaked through. Quentin is wet for him. 

Eliot realizes he’s breathing with his mouth open, like he’s trying to drink Quentin’s scent out of the air. 

“Alpha.” 

Quentin looks over his shoulder, his lips parted and his throat bare. He’s beautiful. His soft mouth and his strong arms and the soft thatch of hair on his lower belly are all  _ waiting for Eliot _ and what is he doing halfway across the room when he could be in Quentin’s nest?

Eliot hardly remembers shedding his clothes. He only knows that any inch of his skin that isn’t touching Quentin is a waste. Any ounce of his strength that isn’t holding his mate down, pressing him into the sweet softness of this bed, kissing him and petting him with all the hunger throbbing through his bones is a  _ waste.  _ Quentin, on his back under him, his hands eager and grasping, stares at Eliot with wild eyes as though waking from a dream.

“Eliot,” he breathes, the name colored with nothing but pure relief.

“Q,” Eliot pants, stroking over Quentin’s chest and hips and his flat belly that Eliot is going to fill—oh  _ god, _ he’s going to fill him so well— “Q. My mate. My home. We’ll be whole again soon, I promise.” 

“Eliot,” Quentin murmurs again, bright and clear eyed—the man that Eliot  _ mated—  _ “Give it all back to me. Please.” 

Eliot doesn’t have to say anything else. He knits his fingers into Quentin’s hair, tips his head back—Quentin goes so  _ beautifully _ pliant and soft under him,  _ trusting him— _ and sets his teeth to  his mate’s throat where they belong.

Instinct guiding him, Eliot bites down. 

Quentin thrashes against him, a cracked yelp escaping his lips when Eliot breaks skin, but Eliot pins him, jaw locked, until—

— _ until _ —

—until Quentin lets out a ragged moan, going utterly slack beneath him. Eliot breathes in and there’s nothing but Quentin. Nothing but his desire, his love, his beautiful beautiful submission. 

A low, rumbling growl sounds in Eliot’s chest. 

With herculean effort he slackens his jaw. He licks up the seeping blood from Quentin’s freshly marked throat. He breathes in the scent of  _ them _ , the scent of  _ his _ , kissing his way across Quentin’s face until he can press their brows together.

Eliot needs to mount. 

He needs to  _ knot _ .

“ _ Mate _ ,” Quentin breathes, eyes nearly black with need. 

“Mate,” Eliot agrees, something sweet and vicious and  _ animal _ coursing through his veins, “My beautiful, precious Omega. No one will ever take you from me again.” 

“No?” Quentin’s chest rises and falls rapidly, a flush spreading as his body heats, ready to be taken. 

“I’ll kill them,” Eliot promises, thoughts slow and primal as he sets himself between Quentin’s slick thighs, “Q, I swear I’ll kill them if they even try.” 

“ _ Yes _ .” Quentin looks—oh  _ god _ —grateful, stunned,  _ blessed _ , when Eliot mounts him, like he’s forgotten how good it was between them. How perfect and right it is for Eliot to fuck into him. 

“I’ll protect you,” Eliot swears, shuddering from the clench of Quentin’s slick, tight channel around his cock, “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep our pups safe, always.” 

“Yes, _ yes, _ alpha, give them to me—“

Ecstatic tears drip down Quentin’s cheeks, as Eliot begins to rock into him, slow, short thrusts that quickly build to more. 

“Soon,” Eliot promises, tasting the salt from Quentin’s cheeks. Kissing his slack mouth. Licking the last of the copper from his throat.

“Soon.” 

With his sweet, perfect mate safe under him, Eliot closes his eyes and  _ ruts _ .

The bed rocks, and Quentin mewls his pleasure. He clings, snuffling against Eliot’s scent gland like he can’t possibly get enough. He nips at the delicate skin there with his teeth, and Eliot’s hips jolt forward so hard he thrusts them both up the bed. 

“Do you wanna bite me too, baby?” Eliot asks breathlessly once he can hear anything besides hungry roaring in his ears. Quentin whimpers under him, nipping at his throat again, and Eliot shudders with the perfection of it. “You want everyone to see I’m yours? Do it, baby. Let them see.” 

Omegas can’t mark, not the way alphas can, but Quentin sets to work, sucking and worrying the skin of Eliot's neck between his teeth and by the time Eliot feels his knot begin to swell his throat is tender and throbbing with what he knows will be a deep, gorgeous bruise. 

“Mine,” Quentin exhales, bliss in every breath Eliot punches out of him with his hard eager fucking. He licks over his scent gland again and digs his heels into the small of Eliot’s back. He’s so ready, so open, Eliot is going to give him  _ everything-- _

Eliot fucks through the tight, gorgeous, wet  _ squeeze  _ of Quentin’s body until they lock. Until they’re one body, and Eliot is nothing but one long trembling moan of pleasure as he fills his mate like he deserves.

“I’m yours,” he swears, hips jerking helplessly in a fruitless quest to be deeper, closer, as if there’s any way to be more complete than they are right now. “I’m yours, Q.” 

“Mate.” Quentin tugs Eliot’s brow to meet his own. Eliot fits a hand to his cock, and Quentin sighs through his own orgasm, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “ _ Fuck.” _

His sweet happy pheromones leak into the air like nitrous oxide and Eliot breathes deeply. He’s never felt so rock steady. He has Quentin—they have each other—and Eliot will kill for him—fuck, he’ll die for him,  _ live _ for him.

Live for  _ them _ . all three of them, someday.

Eliot let’s go of Quentin’s cock, and pets over his still flat belly one more time. 

“Do you think they’ll be the same?” Eliot asks, very quietly. The absence of their son is the only twist of bitterness in this otherwise perfect moment of joy. Quentin nuzzles into Eliot’s throat, hands clinging to his shoulders. 

“We’ll love them the same,” he replies, and Eliot can feel the bow of his smile against the tender skin of his scent gland. “We’ll love  _ each other _ the same.” 

“Yes,” Eliot vows, feeling just for a moment, the truth of fifty extra years in his bones. Grief and joy. Old age, the heat of youth, and fatherhood in between. A new mating and the steady, patient love of a lifetime. “Yeah, Q. Of course.” 

Tied, mated,  _ together,  _ they hold each other. The future will bring what it brings, but here in their nest there’s only peace. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Rest assured I'm working on Saltwater part 2 as well, for those following my pirate au ;)


End file.
